Sandwich Mom in the Sky With(out) Diamonds

Yesterday I made my annual trip to the happiest place in the midwest – the Iowa State Fair. Other state fairs may come close, but I agree with the marketing geniuses who declared “Nothing Compares to the Iowa State Fair.” Nothing compares to the food (deep fried, bacon-wrapped, chocolate dipped, and on a stick), the fun (outhouse races), the culture (balloon sculptures), the spectacle (the gargantuan bull, boar and ram), the long lines (for the butter cow), the butter cow (at the end of the line), or the traditions (all of the above).

And for me, nothing compares to the terror of The Sky Glider.

I've had my moments of unbridled emotion before, but nothing compares to the near-hysteria of The Sky Glider this year – not even the time my Billy Joel concert ticket was so close I could see the stage with my bare eyes!

After a full day of fair fun my fair-going friends and I decided to wrap things up with a round-trip Sky Glider ride. Twice the ride, twice the terror.

The ride got off to an rocky start when it stopped – briefly – just after we reached cruising altitude (far enough off the ground to make my palms sweat). The ride restarted and I resumed my white-knuckle grip on the safety bar just before The Princess – my daughter, rock of bravery and gondola partner – said “Oh.”

“Oh?” I asked, WITHOUT turning my head OR MOVING in any manner.

“I can't do this.”

“Oh.”

I realized I would have to dig down deep into my Super Mom Power reserves to keep it together and set a good example. I had no choice but to suck it up and my assume my resp-Mom-sibilities. I relaxed my grip a little, forced a smile, and began chatting about all the ways this ride WAS NOT ABSOLUTELY TERRIFIYING. I even managed to LET GO OF THE SAFETY BAR WITH ONE HAND long enough to point out the lovely architectural details adorning the roof line of the historic agriculture building. I pointed out the happy people in the gondolas on the return side, the lovely breeze, the dense foliage BENEATH US AND OHMYGODLOOKUP! Look UP, UP! at those fluffy, white clouds.

All the while I was mentally cataloging the things that TERRIFIED ME:

What happened to those riders?

• Looking DOWN at the roof line of the ag building.
• The riders on the return side who were smiling and laughing as if UNAWARE OF THE DANGER WE WERE IN.
• The riders who looked AS TERRIFIED AS ME BECAUSE THEY REALIZED WE COULD PLUMMET TO OUR DEATH AT ANY MOMENT.
• The gondolas which were empty BECAUSE OBVIOUSLY THE PASSENGERS ALREADY FELL TO THEIR DEATHS.
• The dense foliage BENEATH US that would IMPALE US BEFORE WE CRASHED TO THE GROUND.
• The asphalt roads BENEATH US which we would SOON BE SPLATTERED UPON.
• And the fluffy clouds WHICH SHOULD BE MUCH FARTHER ABOVE US.

By that time we were NEARLY three-quarters of the way up the hill – or nearly three-quarters of the way to the HALFWAY point if you have forgotten AND HOW COULD YOU FORGET? that we were making a round trip – and I had begun to giggle nervously, and maybe cry a little . . . because that's just what happens when I start to giggle uncontrollably/hysterically.

It was at precisely this moment The Third Musketeer – who was riding solo in the gondola behind us – announced that she WOULD NOT BE MAKING THE ROUND TRIP ON THE SKY GLIDER OF TERROR. And I started to giggle/cry a little harder because I HAD JUST BEEN THINKING THE SAME THING! I gave her a thumbs up over my shoulder BECAUSE I COULD NOT TURN MY HEAD AND LET GO OF THE SAFETY BAR AT THE SAME TIME.

That was when we FINALLY began our descent, and I was able to take an actual breath and look around me and that stubborn, pig-headed, go-big-or-go-home, warrior-princess within me said AWWW HELL NO! I WILL NOT BE BEATEN BY AN IRRATIONAL FEAR! I WILL NOT BACK DOWN!

And in a quieter but no less convincing voice, the cheapskate in me said I will not waste a return ticket. I MAY BE A CHICKEN BUT I AM A CHEAP CHICKEN AND BY GOD I PRE-PAID FOR A ROUND TRIP RIDE SO I'M DAMN WELL GOING TO MAKE A ROUND TRIP RIDE.

So I TURNED to face The Princess and I asked her if she wanted to get off or if she wanted to ride back down the hill WITH me. She looked at me with admiration – or as if I had sprouted a horn on my forehead – and considered her answer carefully before answering.

“I will ride back with you. Because I don't think we can pry your hands off the safety bar.”

I would love to say that we bravely continued our ride and we lived happily ever after.

But the truth is I had just dried my cheeks and started to realize I HAD MADE A HORRENDOUS MISTAKE when our gondola came around the end point to begin the return ride and the nice young man checked the safety bar and smiled at us.

“Enjoy the ride,” he said.

And I started laughing so hard I SNORTED and the look of surprise on his face was so funny that I laughed HARDER and when we reached cruising altitude and the RIDE STOPPED AGAIN DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN my eyes filled with tears. And for the entire two-and-a-half hour (or five minute) return trip The Princess and I laughed and “ooohed” and “awwwed” as we watched the lights of the midway, and talked about the breeze and the architecture and the foliage and the smell of deep fried, bacon-wrapped, chocolate-dipped fun on a stick.

And made plans for doing it ALL again next year.

If you're not afraid of heights, or if you want to experience them vicariously, check out this video (not shot by me, obviously because there is no screaming): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lcSwm-5V5Zs

Fake It Till You Make It

I'm sitting in a coffee shop with my pen and paper, pastry and coffee, trying to look writerly. I'm in Iowa City, so I blend right in with all the other aspiring writers and students. I'm hoping this change of scenery and role-play will jump start my new/old career as a writer. Look the part, play the part, be the part.

Things I've learned so far: My view of the parking lot is not as inspiring as you might think. Although watching this dumbass try to shoe-horn a Suburban into a space for a compact car is pretty entertaining.

And off-task.

The incredible class I took at the UI Summer Writer's Workshop left me inspired and enthusiastic and thinking anything was possible. But since then other chores have taken over and my writing momentum has dwindled. I went from writing full scenes, to jotting notes and ideas, to... looking for my notebook. It's time to refocus on my new “job.” My dream.

Things I've learned so far: I should never assume I have a notebook in my “novel supply bag.” Luckily I did have a clipboard and paper so I don't have to write on 3x3 sticky-notes. But the clipboard makes me feel more like a health inspector than a writer. I must not look very official, though, because the cashier didn't try to bribe me with free coffee.

Still off-task.

The kids have gone back to school and it has finally hit me that I am well and truly unemployed, not just “between career opportunities” as I have taken to saying. There's still the part-part-part time secretary thing, and the full-time Mom/Wife thing (although they need me a little less), and the volunteer stuff. There's still not enough hours in the day (I should be secretary-ing right now).

Things I've learned so far: With free wi-fi and mobile data Facebook can be a distraction anywhere! Anytime!

Still off-task.

It seemed like such a good idea last spring when I decided to follow my dream to become a writer. People would ask me “what are you going to do if you're not teaching?” I answered confidently “I'm going to write!” And they'd give me that patient, bemused look you give a child who says “I'm going to be a space-cowboy-fireman when I grow up!” Then they'd politely change the subject.

Things I've learned so far: Even when the coffee shop is three-quarters empty, the waitstaff will give you dirty looks after a while. I wonder how many plain-black-coffee, serve-yourself refills you are really supposed to take?

Still off-task.

Now that school is back in session people are a little less... willing to humor me. Now when they ask “what are you doing if you're not teaching?” I answer a little less confidently “Ummm, writing?” And they wait a beat, then follow up with “But really. What are you going to do?” “I'm looking into things,” I mumble. My confidence was all a facade. That veneer is thinning, and my fears are starting to poke through.

Things I've learned so far: I CAN HAVE TOO MUCH CAFFEINE!

I like money. I like getting paid. I like spending money. I like having concrete answers to use on forms that ask you to list things like “Occupation,” and “Work Phone.” And “Yearly Income.”

Things I've learned so far: Autocorrect trumps spell check, and it drives me nuts! Although it did just change “pretending” to “ostensibly,” which sounds fancy. And not as desperate as “pretending.” Sort of brave, even.

Still off-task.

I've always wanted to write. I've always wanted to be a writer. In college most of my friends were science majors, planning for serious careers with serious titles, and suits and badges and office hours. I just wanted to write about what they were going to do and how they would do it.

Before the TV show “Will and Grace” made it trendy to have a gay friend, it was trendy to have a friend who was an English major (or philosophy major) so that you could tell your other friends “This is my English major friend, who will grow up to be unemployed and homeless. Then I will introduce them as my unemployed and homeless friend, and they will have my back when I volunteer to do community service work at the local soup kitchen. This is just more evidence that I am a responsible and forward thinking individual – besides the fact that I have chosen a career path that ensures an employable future.”

And I would turn to all my other English and journalism friends and I would say “These are my science major friends. They actually study. A lot. I can tell you about what they do and how they do it, but I can't do it myself. Someday they're going to have important, serious jobs. And I'll write about those, too.

But what I really want to do is write the stories and books that they will read when they get home from work. When they are tired and just want to escape from this serious world for a little while they'll turn to my work. I'll tell them about my hopes and dreams, and fears and crazy ideas. And maybe they'll laugh, or cry, or relax, or see things from a new perspective.

Just for a moment they will be off-task, and they'll enjoy it.

Things I've learned so far: I can't give up just yet. I'll fake it till I make it.

But with less coffee.

Tied Up in (Forget Me) Knots

Hi, Mom! How are you doing?

It's so good to see you!

It's good to see you, too. I know it seems like it's been a long time since I've been here at the nursing home, but it was just.... Well, never mind. I've been busy. But I've been thinking of you. I'm always thinking of you!

I stopped in a couple days ago, but you were sleeping. I tried to wake you, but you kept dozing off. I talked anyway. You probably don't remember, huh? I knew it wasn't an ideal time of day to visit, but it was the only time I could get away....

It's just so good to see you!

It's good to see you too. We've been pretty busy. Of course there's not really anything exciting or memorable to tell you. Just the ordinary, everyday stuff that eats up time before you know it.

It's not much of an excuse. It's just so hard to get away sometimes. Even for a little while.

It's so good to see you!

I know. You too. Anyway, today I just had to shuffle schedules and come see you. Even if I don't have much to talk about, we can just sit here and hold hands. And I'll talk. About everything and nothing. Anything but what's really on my mind.

It's just so good to see you.

Do you remember Sue? They used to live next door? She said to say hi. So... hi.

A lot of people ask about you. They say they see you when they're here visiting their own parents. I tell them the same thing. Somehow it seems to make us feel a little better. It's our way of recognizing that unspoken, shared guilt we have. The feeling that we can never visit often enough, or stay long enough.

They say you're looking good. They tell me they said hi, but they're not sure if you recognized them or not. And really, why should you? I mean, we don't look quite the same as we did back in school. But that's how they remember you, that's how they remember their folks. I'm the same. In our minds you're still the Little League coach, the club leader, the chaperone at the dance. Or you're taking us out for dinner at college. Or dancing at our wedding. Proudly holding our babies.

It's so good to see you!

Then they ask the tough question: “Do you think she recognizes you?” And I say yes. But I hesitate. And I wonder if they're thinking the same thing I am: Do I really believe this? Do you really recognize me? And what will I do when....

Because they aren't really asking me about you, they're asking themselves about their own parents. They're asking “Do you think my mom still recognizes me?” That's what I'm doing when I ask how their parents are doing. We can't ask it outright. We can't share our fears so openly. But we know. Without speaking, we know how afraid we are that you will forget us.

So. I don't visit as often as I'd like because I'm busy.

But I'm also afraid.

And I feel guilty about not visiting more often. And I feel guilty about taking time away from the kids, my husband, my job to come here and visit with you. And I feel guilty about feeling guilty. But you know that, don't you?

I remember how you struggled to find time to visit Gramma without shortchanging me. At the time I thought that I was grown up and you didn't need to worry about me. Now I realize I might not have needed you to worry about me, but you needed to worry about me. And you needed to worry about Gramma. It's the challenge of being caught between two generations.

It's just so good to see you!

Speaking of the kids, I've got to be getting home. But I promise I'll visit again soon.

I promise.

Look at our hands. I tell everyone I have your hands. But who's hands do you have? When did they get so thin, so fragile? Sometimes I worry I'm holding yours too tight, that I will hurt you. But I don't want to let go. I'm afraid you'll slip away. Because you're already slipping away. And I don't know how to ask you to stay, much less how to let you go.

I love you.

Don't forget that (you know me).

I won't forget that (I love you).

I promise.

Wanna See Something Really Scary?

I love Halloween. What's not to love about dressing up and eating lots of candy? But I'm not a big fan of going through haunted houses – or haunted trails, tunnels, barns, fields, forests, malls, closets, and shoe boxes. For that matter, I don't like watching scary movies – unless they're SyFy originals. And the lights are on. And I control the remote.

I'm not exactly sure when I turned into such a big weenie. I used to like reading scary stories and watching scary movies (remember “Kiss Meets the Phantom of the Park”?) and I … tolerated … the local Jaycee's annual Haunted Whatever.

But somewhere along the way all that frightening stuff lost its appeal.

And I got along just fine until the Princess hit the teen years and decided she needed to experience all things spooky. Luckily her friends have parents much braver than I am (and they are too kind to point that out).

I've tried to look at my fear of fear-inducing activities rationally. I know that psychologically, scary movies, etc., can provide a “safe” way to face our fears. A horror movie or trip to a haunted house can provide a cathartic experience, just like watching a tear-jerking movie can make you feel better. But that rational viewpoint is the first thing to get catharsis-ed right out of me when some rubber-masked ghoul surprises me.

It's not like I think that vampire rising out of the cardboard box is actually going to “get” me. I know the difference between reality and make-believe, possible and impossible. A few examples: Zombies taking over the world? Impossible. (They lack the fine motor skills needed to fill out a voter registration form. Except in Chicago.). Chainsaw wielding maniac hacking me to bits? Impossible. (I know better than to walk through the darkened woods when that creepy violin music is playing.) Eric Balfour and Colin Firth fighting over me? Improbable (one lives in the US, the other in the UK).

Whatever the real reason, I've deluded myself into believing that I don't like horror movies/haunted houses because reality is more scary than any fantasy. Just a few of the real life things that scare me more than any haunted house could:

• Fitting rooms with florescent lights – As if the fun-house inspired mirrors weren't bad enough (my ass isn't really that big, is it?), those florescent lights give my cellulite the attractive pallor of the living dead.
• Pregnancy tests – At this time in my life, a positive pregnancy test for me (theoretically possible) would result in a heart attack; a positive test for the Princess would result in me behind bars.
• College tuition – For the Princess' sake, I hope Netflix starts offering scholarships. The Little Prince may end up playing his drums on street corners for donations.
• Yearbooks – In the company of friends, yearbooks can be a source of nostalgia. In the company of your children yearbooks are a source of fashion ridicule. Knowing that what comes around goes around doesn't help.
• Family car rides – Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?
• The shiny reflection at the bottom of an empty coffee can – My own personal worst fear could lead to my family's worst nightmare: Me without my morning coffee.

These are a few of my most fearful things, but in the spirit of Halloween, I've conjured up my vision of the most frightening, most realistic, most terrifying haunted house ever... enter if you dare:

The House of Eternal Clutter!

The first stop in this horror-provoking attraction is the (Abandon Hope All Ye Who) Entry Way: Sort through piles of abandoned shoes, bags, coats and other assorted detritus to clear a path through this deceptively small looking room and make your way to the...

Living (Dead) Room: Wind your way around the mountains of used tissues, stacks of papers and perilously leaning towers of books, and climb over haphazardly strewn blankets and pillows in your quest to find the three remotes required to activate the television and trigger the exit door. Once you figure out the right combination of buttons you may enter the...

Slumberless Bedchamber: Get your mind out of the gutter! By the time you sort, fold, and put away all the laundry accumulated on the king (kong)-sized bed, you'll be too tired to think of anything other than escape. Drag your bleary-eyed self to …

Rapuzel's Bathroom: Hair, hair everywhere, and not a bottle of Liquid Plumr to be found. The only drain not sporting a clump of hair the size of a housecat is the toilet, and it is filled with a roll of toilet paper. You'd better hope that plunger unclogs the passage to the final room on this tour...

(Hell's) Kitchen: You can see the parking lot from here! To earn your freedom all you have to do is prepare a nutritious breakfast... and wash the dishes in time to make a hearty lunch... and wash dishes in time to cook a bountiful dinner... and wash dishes... and plan for tomorrow's meals....

Enough, you say! Make a run for it! Jump over the laundry baskets, dodge the overflowing wastebaskets, stumble over the shoes piled in front of the exit! Freedom, sweet freedom!

But wait! The house has reset. All that cleaning you did has been undone! You're going to have to start all over again!

Hmmmm... that sounds awfully familiar. Are those shrieking violins I hear?